


Pieces of Us

by Evilpixie



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22444942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilpixie/pseuds/Evilpixie
Summary: A collection of memories from Bruce and Clark's life together.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 87
Kudos: 330
Collections: Batman





	Pieces of Us

Clark would never forget the first moment he saw Batman.

It was during the Darkseid invasion. People were screaming, parademons were swarming, and every few minutes another portal would open, the edges of them fizzing in the air like water on a hot stove.

Clark had just saved two people and was in the process of saving three more when he spotted him.

Black wings, white eyes. At first Clark thought it was another demon… but then he heard the heartbeat. Steady, strong, and undeniably human. He was crouched on pile of rubble, a grapple gun in one hand, an active motherbox in the other.

“Do you know what that is?!” Clark called out.

The Batman looked at him. When he spoke his voice was deep, clear, and calm. “I know what it’s doing.” He tossed it at Clark.

Clark caught it.

“And I know there is only one person on this planet strong enough to destroy it.”

“That would close the portals. There are people in there!”

Batman’s lip curled. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

Then, with a flurry of movement he dove off the rubble, fired is grapple, and disappeared into the nearest portal.

“What the fuck was what?” The Green Lantern asked.

“I think that was Batman.”

“Batman? As in, the Bigfoot of Gotham? That Batman?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. This is officially the weirdest day ever.”

Thirteen minutes later the Batman emerged from a portal, a stream of captives following him, scared, bruised, but alive.

Clark didn’t count them. He didn’t want to know how many they’d lost. He didn’t want to leave the portals open longer and risk losing more. He ripped up the box in his hand. It died with an explosion of light. It wasn’t until later that Clark learnt there hadn’t been a single fatality among the people that had been taken into the portals.

Batman had saved them all.

*

Clark Joseph Kent.

Bruce studied the name on the screen. Superman’s secret identity, finally unveiled after months of careful investigation. The photo beside it was blurry and unassuming, a hunched man with bulky glasses and a small awkward smile. He didn’t look much like Superman. But he was. DNA didn’t lie, especially when the DNA in question was Kryptonian.

But the photo wasn’t what disturbed Bruce.

His eyes flicked back to the name… it was familiar. He knew it was. It took Bruce a few minutes to recall where he’d heard it before. When he did his stomach twisted into a knot. It was the name of the investigative journalist that had been trying to get an interview with Bruce Wayne since… since Batman first met Superman a year ago.

_Shit._

He knew. Superman knew Bruce Wayne was Batman. He’d known for _months_. Of course he did. He could see through everything but lead. Bruce hadn’t known that when they met or he would have lined the cowl. But he hadn’t… and ‘good boy’ Superman clearly wasn’t above peeking.

Bruce lurched to his feet and began pacing. This was bad. Very bad. Superman knew his identity. Superman – Clark Joseph Kent – was journalist.

But if he knew why hadn’t he revealed it to the public? He’d probably get a Pulitzer if he uncovered the face behind the Gotham Bat. Was he scared of retaliation? Possible. But unlikely. If that was the case then he wouldn’t be asking for interviews at all. He’d be staying as far away from Bruce as possible. He was intelligent, that much was obvious. He would know Bruce would uncover his identity sooner or later… sooner if he put himself close to him.

Could it be that Superman… wanted Bruce to know who he was?

No. That wasn’t possible. Why would he trust Bruce like that? Why would he want to hand away the advantage he had?

Perhaps he didn’t see it as an advantage. He’d known Bruce was Batman for months. He’d known and he’d never once used that information. He'd never even _threatened_ to use it, even when they’d almost come to blows last March. Perhaps… he didn’t want to hurt Batman. He didn’t want to hurt Bruce. Not really.

“Alfred?”

“Yes sir?”

“Could you organise a meeting for me?”

“If I must. With who?”

“Clark Joseph Kent.”

*

_“Superman. Superman come in.”_

Clark dropped the book he’d been reading and scrambled to grab his communicator from the bedside table. “Batman? I’m here. What is it?”

_“I need you. Now.”_

His heart started pounding in his chest. “Where?”

_“Thirty seven degrees, fifty three minutes, twenty one seconds, North. Forty one degrees, zero seven minutes, forty five seconds, East. Three hundred and twenty three feet altitude.”_

Holy shit. Okay. Clark raced to his computer to type in the coordinates so he could see it on a map.

**_“Superman. Now.”_ **

“I’m coming. I just got to get… okay!”

He ripped off his dressing gown, clambered into his costume, and flew out his apartment window. He was at the exact coordinates four seconds later, hovering in the air over Gotham streets. There were police sirens below.

“Batman? Where are you? What…?”

Something hard and metal hit him in the face.

He blinked in surprise as an electronic whir filled the air. A moment later Batman was on his shoulder, perched on him like Clark was just another gargoyle in Gotham. He didn’t stay long. Before Clark could even figure out what was going on Bruce dove off him and dived down to tackle a colourfully dressed villain running across a nearby rooftop.

_“I have him.”_

For a few seconds no one said anything… then, a new young voice crackled through the speaker.

_“Batman… did you just use Superman as a grapple point?”_

Bruce was cuffing the man he’d captured. _“There was no other way to get into the roof quickly enough.”_

_“But… **Superman** … **a grapple point**. Is that… okay?”_

Clark wasn’t sure how he was feeling about it either.

“Um,” he spoke into his communicator. “I suppose if there is nothing else you need me for…”

_“Wait!”_ The third voice cried out. _“Can I come up, Superman?”_

What could he say to that but… “Sure.”

This time he saw the grapple coming. He let it loop around his arm and catch. The wire whirred and a moment later a brightly dressed boy appeared out of the night. He clambered up onto Clark’s arm. He was grinning, cheeks red around the corners of his mask.

“Hi. I’m Robin. I think you’re really cool. Thanks for letting me up here.”

_“Robin,”_ Batman growled into the communicator. _“Get down here.”_

“No worries,” Clark said, still processing everything that was happening.

The boy saw where Bruce was, sucked in a deep breath, and leapt off Clark in an elegant dive. Clark watched him arc through the air, activating the gliding mechanism of his cape only a few metres above the rooftop. He skidded to a stop right beside Bruce.

_“Thanks Superman!”_

Bruce didn’t say anything.

Robin. _“You should thank him too, Batman.”_

_“You provided adequate assistance, Superman,”_ Bruce growled. _“Though the seven second delay is something we should work on.”_

Clark couldn’t help it. He laughed. It was just so… ridiculous. “Sure thing, Batman. Next time I need a hat stand I expect you to be there in five seconds or less, pointy ears ready to serve.”

Bruce hrrupmfed.

Clark just laughed harder. Oh, this was gold. He was going to tease Bruce about this for _years_.

*

They were in a diner that was so overdue for a renovation it could now be considered ‘retro’. Neon signs buzzed, photos of customers who’d won ‘Joe’s Waffle Challenge’ covered the walls, and there, in the corner, a jukebox stood warbling out the first lines of _Blue Hawaii_ by Elvis.

Clark ordered a full cream chocolate milkshake and apple pie. Naturally. That perfect body of his was a product of Krypton. Zero maintenance required.

“Do you have a salad?” Bruce asked when the waitress turned to him.

“There’s pickles in the burger.”

“In that case,” he handed the menu back. “Just water for me.”

“Bruce,” Clark looked hurt. “Don’t be a prude. It’s good food.”

Bruce raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Your definition of ‘good’ is disturbingly broad.”

“He’ll have the same as me,” Clark told her.

“Sure thing, darl.” She sent Bruce a decidedly dark look before tucking the menus under her arm and striding away towards the kitchen. Absently he wondered if the waitress was also the cook.

“I’m not eating that,” Bruce told Clark.

“At least give it a try.”

“We could have gone to one of my restaurants. I have two near here.”

Clark sighed. “Of course you do.”

“Both have healthy lunch options.”

“Look, Bruce, I like this place. Can you just… pretend not to be disgusted by everything you see? Please?”

Bruce looked at Clark. “I’m not disgusted by everything I see.”

Clark made a noise like he thought that wasn’t very likely. He picked up a paper serviette and began absently twisting it around his fingers. It was a nervous action, not something Bruce was used to seeing from Clark.

“How’s work?” He asked.

“Hm? Oh. Okay. I still have to find time to move the shipment for the new upgrade up but—”

He was talking about the Watchtower repairs.

“I meant at the Daily Planet.”

Clark looked surprised. “Busy, actually. Really busy. We’re pretty understaffed right now so I’m filling in for an editor for a few weeks while still doing my regular work.”

“Do they pay you more for that?”

“No. But that’s okay. It’s a favour.”

“You shouldn’t do that. You’re an employee. You’re letting your employer take advantage of you.”

Clark laughed. “Says the born billionaire. It’s fine Bruce, really. But thanks. I know this is your version of caring.”

Bruce frowned but didn’t contradict him because at that moment the pies and milkshakes arrived.

Clark beamed. “Thanks so much!”

“No worries, darl. Hey, has anyone ever told you you look like Superman?”

Bruce looked at Clark sharply.

And Clark… he laughed. An awkward happy laugh that somehow sounded both ridiculous and perfectly earnest at the same time. “It’s the eyebrows,” he said and dropped his glasses – _he dropped his glasses_ – to show her.

Bruce could feel his heart beating in his chest. He felt like he was witnessing a train wreck.

“’The Superman Swoop’ they call it,” Clark drawled, his Midwestern accent rearing its ugly head. “My barber does it for me.”

“Hm. Oh yeah. I can see it.”

Clark pushed his glasses back up his nose and blinked at her. His bright alien blue eyes became an insipid grey through the tint in the glass. The magnification in them also make them look smaller… and was he perhaps squinting a little bit too?

“I’ll tell my husband, next time he’s at the barber, he needs to get a Superman Swoop or no dessert.” It was clear from her tone of voice that she wasn’t talking about pie.

Clark snorted – he _literally_ snorted – with laughter, thanked her again, and took a sip of his milkshake as she walked away. He moaned in delight. “I love this place.”

Bruce stared at him.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“No, actually, and as someone who is one bored Russian hacker away from being outed I would appreciate a little less righteous condescension from you.”

“I am not one hack—”

“Eat your pie.”

Bruce eyed him across the table.

He wanted to lecture him. He really did. But, at the same time, he knew Clark had handled that well, better than Bruce would have if someone had accused him of being Batman. And, if he was being honest, Clark really did a fantastic job of hiding his secret identity. It wasn’t just the bulky unflattering suits, the way he combed his hair, or the hunched posture. It was his natural gift for acting too.

Bruce picked up his fork and took a bite of the pie.

It was delicious.

*

He’d done it. He’d actually done it.

Clark looked around the cave in disbelief. It appeared the same as usual. Large, cavernous, and decidedly empty. Only it wasn’t. He knew, somewhere in his immediate environment, Bruce was hiding.

Somehow, after months of trial and error, the man had figured out a way to stump his superpowers.

“Okay,” he said into the air. “I’m impressed.”

Bruce didn’t respond. Clark wasn’t surprised. Any answer would surely reveal the man’s location. No doubt he wanted to see how long this would last. How long he would be able to remain undetected from Clark’s superior senses.

He scanned the room again. Rocks, shadows, and a few batmobiles sitting low to the ground. No Bruce.

The lack of visual confirmation was nothing beside the empty press of the air around him.

He wasn’t used to not hearing Bruce’s heartbeat. He wasn’t used to silence. Not here.

“You win, Bruce. I can’t find you.”

Still no answer.

He looked again. Turned on the spot to scan the walls both inside and out. Nothing. No breath, no beating heart, no Bruce.

“Okay, seriously, come out now.”

Bruce, wherever he was, stayed silent.

“Bruce, you win. You can—”

“Boo.”

The moment the man spoke Clark saw him. He was feet away in a suit that camouflaged him into a rocky shelf of the cave wall. A spot not too open to be obvious but not so secretive that it invited inspection either.

Clark closed the distance between them in a moment and quickly tore away the mask and chest of the batsuit.

“Clark!”

“I’m s-sorry I… I don’t know why I…” Bruce’s heartbeat, the sound of his lungs, the unfiltered growly bass of his voice. More beautiful than anything else imaginable. The soundtrack of the man he loved filling his ears like—Clark froze. The man he loved. He loved Bruce. He…

“That cost sixty thousand dollars,” Bruce told him, gesturing at his ruined suit.

“I’m sorry I’ll pay you back.”

He snorted. “I’m sure.”

He loved Bruce. Oh God, he loved him. How long had he loved him? They’d been friends for years. When had he…?

“Clark?” The man was studying him from the torn out face of his suit. Steel grey eyes narrowed and framed by thick expressive eyebrows. “Are you okay?”

“It’s n-nothing,” he stammered. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to not being able to hear your heart. I…”

“So you ripped my suit open?”

“Yea—no. No that’s not… I’m sorry. Moment of madness.” He forced a smile. “It worked though. I couldn’t find you.”

“Yes,” Bruce turned away from him, distracted. “But I imagine if I moved you would have found me. It’s not perfect yet. Next week? Same time?”

“I’ll be here,” Clark said.

“So will I,” Bruce promised. “But you won’t know it.”

*

Something was wrong with Clark. Bruce wasn’t sure what it was. He’d been behaving strangely for months. Not avoiding him, not exactly, but not interacting with him the way they used to either. It bothered Bruce… though he wasn’t sure why. If anything, he should be pleased. Clark had stopped dropping in on him unannounced and their interaction had been to-the-point and professional.

_“Batman. Where are you?”_

“I’m coming,” he snarled into the communicator.

Before him the alien control panel flashed. An ugly but familiar language burbled up from the receivers. This was Apokolian tech. Well, that solved the mystery of who was behind this particular invasion attempt. Darkseid had had his eye on Earth ever since they repelled him five years ago. He wouldn’t attack personally. No, it would be humiliating on an intergalactic scale to be defeated twice by one planet. But, it seemed, he wasn’t above sending unmarked vessels.

_“Batman?”_

He started hacking into the system.

Maybe it was Lois. Clark had started dating her right around the time he stopped spending as much time with Bruce. It was a good match. She wasn’t the type to be intimidated by Superman and was witty and clever enough to keep him humble. What’s more, she clearly cared about him, and he cared about her.

But still…

He finished hacking the system and accessed the data he needed. The kill switch. _Too easy._ He flicked it.

An explosion rocked the ship.

_“Batman. Please tell me you’re not in…”_

“I’m coming,” he said again, and started to run.

Maybe he should invite Clark and Lois over for dinner. Clark would be surprised. It wasn’t like him, he knew. But he missed—

Another explosion. Bruce was thrown into the air.

_“Batman?!”_

He fired his grapple gun, swung, fired again, and swung again. Around him the ship was shattering, ripped apart by the air as it began to fall towards the planet’s surface. A panel near him tore away showing a flash of blue sky. Bruce dropped the grapple and dove through. Clear crisp air engulfed him. He took a moment to orientate himself, falling towards the Pacific Ocean, a spacecraft plummeting down beside him.

Too slow. The ship exploded and something large and hard hit him, ripping his cape.

_“Bruce!”_

_Sloppy. Should have moved faster. Shouldn’t have dropped the grapple. Should of…_

Another explosion, this one closer. He felt the heat of it… then nothing.

*

Clark landed in the usual spot, changed into a dower grey suit, and trudged the two and a half blocks to Gotham General. It had become a daily routine these last few months. A pattern he followed without even thinking.

Eight hundred and twenty three steps to take him from the place he hid his cape to the hospital door, a hundred and sixteen steps to carry him across the foyer and into the gift shop where the florist greeted him with his usual order, and a final two hundred and eleven steps to take up to Bruce’s room.

He changed the wilting flowers out for the fresh ones, checked to make sure the nurses had changed the bedding, and took the man’s hand as he sat down in his usual spot at his side.

“Hey, how are you?”

No answer. Clark didn’t know why he still waited for an answer. Even if Bruce was awake he wouldn’t be able to talk with the tube down his throat.

“Hal was being an utter arse in the JLA meeting today. God, I wish you could have come just to tell him to shut up and sit down. I know we always said I was the leader of the JLA but, seriously, things just fall apart without you there.” _I just fall apart without you there._

Bruce didn’t move. His breathing and heartbeat as displayed by the machines at his side the only indicator of life.

“Lois broke up with me,” he admitted. “Two weeks ago. I’ve been holding back telling you that. I… I don’t know why. It’s not like you’re going to…” he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “God, it must be awful being in a coma. The doctor’s say you can still hear which means you have to lie there and listen to me moaning about Hal and Lois and…”

Still no answer.

Not even the annoyed little frown Bruce would get when he was trying to ignore Clark.

“I bet everyone blames themselves too,” Clark whispered. “I bet everyone thinks if they did something differently you wouldn’t be here. I suppose I’m no different in that regard either. Only, for some reason, I have to keep coming in every day to tell you about it. As if, somehow, our relationship was more important.”

Bruce didn’t move.

Clark sighed, turned on the TV, and stayed sitting at the other man’s bedside. The game was on. He hoped – if Bruce could hear – it was more interesting than him. An infomercial would probably more interesting than him at that point.

An hour later, as usual, he stood and readied himself for the trek back to where he’d hidden his cape. “I’m going to head home now. Ma’s come over for the week and she’ll worry if I’m not home for dinner. It’s like being a kid again.”

Nothing.

“I…” Clark stared at him. At Bruce’s fierce angular face, almost alien in its lax emptiness. Finally he leant forward and did something he never did. He kissed him. Not on the mouth. The breathing tube made that impossible. Instead he pushed his lips against Bruce’s brow. Firm, chaste, and entirely selfish.

An act that did nothing for Bruce but fed his belief that the man was still in there… somewhere. “You need to wake up,” he whispered as he retreated. “You need to because I… I can’t do this without you. I’ve been trying to since you fell but everything’s been falling apart and…” he stared at the other man. “I love you.”

It was the most honest thing he felt he’d ever said. Yet, as with everything else, Bruce didn’t respond.

Clark sighed, straightened, and left to begin his long march home.

Perhaps tomorrow he would bring Bruce tulips instead.

*

It hurt.

Bruce closed his eyes and tried to adapt to that pain, to master it. He tried all the methods the monks in Nepal had taught him about separating himself from his body, he tried to remember all the older uglier ways he used to feel and then compartmentalise the needs of his body. When all that failed he tried to push through, to endure. To his disgust he found he couldn’t. Not here. Not now. Not when the road to recovery still stretched out into the horizon before him.

He turned and struck the stone wall of the cave, a punch that fractured at least one bone.

_Useless. Pathetic. Weak. Childish. Just like you were that night. Just like—_

“Hey,” a hand on his shoulder.

He flinched.

It was Clark, his skin and voice warm, comforting. It shamed Bruce that Clark was seeing him like this, but he didn’t have the heart in him to send him away either. Clark had been with him ever since he woke, helping him, talking to him, and holding him through the worst of it. It should terrify him how quickly he’d come to be dependent on the other man.

It did.

But perhaps not for the reasons it should.

“One step at a time,” Clark said softly and took Bruce’s hand. “Come on. I’ll help you. And, hey, if you need to punch something, punch me.”

“That’ll probably hurt me more than punching the wall,” he said dryly.

“Oh, yes, but at least you won’t damage the stone.”

Bruce barked out a course laugh, squeezed his hand, and took another step.

It hurt.

He took another.

*

Bruce was drunk.

Bruce was drunk and Clark was angry.

He shouldn’t be. It was irrational. He had nothing to be angry about. But there it was, sitting low and undeniable in his chest.

Across the room Bruce was lounging back on a leather sofa, a blonde on one arm, a brunette on the other. The red head’s sequined bottom was planted squarely in his lap. All three women were utterly gorgeous… and very intent on toying with the foppish billionaire they had snared between them.

They were touching, teasing.

Bruce made a joke. They all laughed.

The blonde was the first to make a move. She took Bruce’s glass when he tried to take another sip of wine, turned his head towards her, and kissed him deeply.

The other two women cheered with delight when Bruce kissed her back, just as deep.

Somewhere nearby Clark heard a camera shutter snap.

Clark wasn’t an idiot. He could see where this was going. Before the week was up there would be a splash page in every Gotham gossip magazine with explicit, and entirely fabricated, details on Bruce Wayne’s latest sexual exploit. Foursome. That was a record for the playboy, unless Clark was very much mistaken.

He supposed, now that Bruce was better, he had to make up for lost time.

The blonde was still kissing him. The brunette, emboldened, ran her hand down his chest. Lower…

Clark heard Bruce’s small intake of air.

The champagne flute in Clark’s hand shattered.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know my own strength.”

The whole party was looking at him, Bruce included.

“I think I’ve had too much,” Clark said. “I better leave.” He made for the exit.

He was in the carpark outside the hotel, looking for a quiet place to take off, when the fire escape door opened behind him.

“Clark.”

He didn’t turn around. “I’m sorry, Mr Wayne.”

“Clark?”

“I know you probably expected me to stay longer but I think I have enough to do an article on the fundraiser.”

“Clark I don’t—”

“Besides, I have an early morning meeting tomorrow and—”

_“Clark.”_

He turned to look at him. He had no choice. There was something in Bruce’s voice that wouldn’t be denied.

He was beautiful. Despite the alcohol flushed cheeks, despite the lipstick on his neck, despite the untucked shirt, he was fucking exquisite. Every goddamned inch of him, the most magnificent man in the world… and that just made Clark angrier.

“Do you need to save someone?” Bruce asked. “Is that why you’re leaving?”

Clark couldn’t lie to him. He couldn’t.

Bruce was studying him. Brilliant, even while drunk. “You’re angry at me?”

Again he tried to lie. Again he found he couldn’t.

“Why?”

“It’s those women.”

Bruce blinked. That hadn’t been the answer he’d been expecting. “What about them?”

“I… I didn’t think… you’d… three at once I… I thought you were better than…”

Bruce’s brows descended faster than Clark thought possible. “Well, I’m sorry if I disappointed you, Superman.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Bruce turned his back on him.

“Bruce. Bruce!” And how had that happened? He was the one that was angry. He was the one that was leaving. Bruce was the one that was chasing him. But now he was flying towards him, grabbing his wrist, spinning him back around.

“Get your hands off me.”

“Listen to me. That’s not what I meant to say.”

“What did you mean to say? Was it ‘whore’? ‘Slut’?”

“I would never say that!”

“No, you’re too good for that. You’d call me ‘disturbed’, ‘damaged’. Oh poor Bruce. He’s been through a lot. An orphan, you know. It’s not his fault he never learnt to deal with his problems in healthy ways, never learnt to keep his legs closed.”

“That’s not what I would say!”

“What would you say then?!”

Before Clark realised what he was doing he’d grabbed Bruce’s face, pulled him forward, and crushed their lips together. It wasn’t a very nice kiss. In fact, it was probably the worst kiss Clark had ever had; ugly, desperate, and angry. But it got the message across, loud and clear.

“Ah,” Bruce said as Clark pulled back. “Well… that explains a lot actually.”

“Shit. I’m sorry. I… I shouldn’t have done that.” He tried to step away. He couldn’t. Bruce was holding him. When had that happened? “Bruce…?”

Bruce was close to him. Very close. “I can do better,” he said, breath ghosting across Clark’s lips.

Oh God. Oh fuck. This was happening. This was actually happening.

“Can I?”

“Only if you don’t kiss anyone else tonight,” Clark rasped.

Bruce’s lips twitched. “Deal.” His lips pressed against his and this… this was everything the other kiss wasn’t. It was open, passionate, but also somehow still tender, intricate. He felt Bruce’s tongue slide questioningly against his, just a gentle probing touch. Somehow just that made every cell in Clark’s body come alive.

And maybe just maybe Bruce felt it to because when they emerged for air his cheeks were flushed from more than just alcohol.

“Do you want to…?”

“God yes.”

Clark kissed him again, and again, and again. He didn’t stop kissing him. In awe of being able to do this, of feeling Bruce respond, of hearing his shuddering breaths. It was perfect. He was perfect. And Clark… Clark knew he was hooked. Just one taste and he was an addict. He would spend the rest of his life searching for this.

Because there was no high quite like kissing Bruce Wayne.

*

“You bought the Daily Planet?!”

Bruce frowned and looked up from the article he was reading. Clark was standing in the doorway. He looked furious. He also looked like he’d flown all the way here in his civilian clothes. They were damp from cloud condensation, would need hours of ironing, and the shirt was missing several buttons.

It was oddly attractive.

“Yes.”

“Why?!”

“It was a good investment.”

“Bullshit! You did it to get to me.”

Bruce leant back in his chair. “You think I bought a newspaper just to ‘get to you’?”

“Yes!”

“Clark. You sleep in my bed. Why would I need to buy your place of work to get to you?”

“You know what I meant!”

“I’m really not sure I do—”

“You did it so you can… I don’t know… mess with me at work.”

“You think I want to _mess with_ you at work?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know! Stop being so _reasonable!”_

Bruce arched an eyebrow. Didn’t say anything.

Clark pointed a finger at him. “I’m not calling you ‘boss’.” He slammed the door on his way out.

Bruce waited until he heard the distant sonic boom that meant Clark had taken off at speed back to Metropolis then turned back to his article.

It was about the farce that was Lex Luthor’s trial. The headline **: ‘Yes, of course you’re innocent Mr Luthor, please don’t do it again, Mr Luthor.’** By Clark Joseph Kent. It was a good article, would probably have won some awards if it was a little less critical of the evident corruption in Criminal Justice System.

Bruce smiled.

Luthor would be furious when he realised there was no way he could buy the Daily Planet and force them to print an apology.

*

“This is hopeless.”

Clark sighed. He knew this would happen. “Bruce. Come on. It’s only been twenty minutes.”

“I can’t sleep. I have work to do.”

“Remember what the doctor said? You need to get a proper night sleep.”

“I am aware of what the doctor said,” Bruce said slowly, as if Clark were a particular stupid child. “Unfortunately… I. Can’t. Sleep.”

“Even if you just lie here and pretend to sleep it’s better than staying up. I saw it on TV.”

“Of course you did.”

Clark ignored the condescending tone. “Bruce. Please. For me. Come on.”

Bruce slumped reluctantly back down onto the mattress and let himself be pulled into Clark’s arms. A minute passed. Then two. Then ten.

“No. I can’t do it.” He sat up.

“Brrrrruuuuuce.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t just sleep through the night like you. I’m not a solar powered god who switches off whenever the sun goes down.”

Okay. That was it. He was done being nice. Clark sat up and hauled him bodily back into the bed.

“Cla–!”

“I’m not switched off.”

“Is this your plan? You’re going to have sex with me to keep me in bed?”

“Will it work?”

An hour later Clark lay in bed with an exhausted and unconscious Bruce on top of him. He smiled.

It worked.

*

“Am I hurting you?”

“No,” Bruce lied.

“Please tell me if I’m hurting you,” Clark said and stabbed into him.

Bruce hummed and settled against the medical bay cot. Clark was hovering – literally – over him, a rather fetching frown plastered across his face. The cut he was tending to wasn’t a very big one, but it wasn’t a very neat one either.

“You’re doing a good job, Mister Kent,” Alfred said. “In fact, I’d say you’re better at stitching than our dear Master Bruce. Just keep going. That’s it. Good lad.”

“I am perfectly capable of stitching myself,” Bruce told the butler.

“’Capable’ is not what I would call you, sir.”

“What would you call me?”

“After what you did to your bicep? Why, I’d say you were a barely competent butcher.”

Clark was flushed red.

Damn beautiful bastard. He would fuck him tonight, Bruce decided. Maybe in the shower. They hadn’t done that yet. Clark would look fantastic orgasming while wet.

“Is this okay?” Clark asked Alfred.

“Yes. Fantastic. At this rate I’ll be able to take a holiday soon.”

Bruce snorted. “Holiday? You? You’ve never taken a day off in your entire life.”

“No, Master Bruce, I’ve never taken a day off in _your_ entire life. But now that it seems like you’ve finally found someone willing and able to take care of you I think I might take a well-deserved break. I think I have more than earnt it.”

Bruce looked at Alfred.

Clark didn’t notice, he was too focused on stitching the wound closed and wasn’t as familiar with Alfred’s particular brand of snark as Bruce was… but that right there… that hadn’t just been teasing… that had been Alfred’s blessing.

Bruce suddenly felt warm, like he was a boy again, wrapped in blankets.

“Alfred…”

The butler’s look was soft but, as always, his words weren’t. “Oh. Shush. I’m off to bed. I leave him in your capable hands, Mister Kent.”

“Oh… no… Alfred I don’t know if I can…”

“You’ll be fine,” Alfred told Clark. “And you will too, Master Bruce. I’m sure of it.”

*

“Bruce. Bruce!”

Bruce’s eyes snapped open. With a snarl he lashed out, a fist closely followed by an elbow. Clark moved back quick enough to dodge both and then watched as Bruce rolled off the bed and clambered to his feet.

He was breathing hard. His eyes were wide.

“Hey. It’s okay,” Clark said softly. “It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare. You’re okay.”

Bruce stared as if he didn’t understand what he was saying.

“Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?”

“You woke me?” Bruce rasped.

“Yes. I had to. You’d gone all ridged and your heart was going crazy. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t wake me again.”

“But.. .Bruce.”

“Don’t wake me again!” He grabbed his dressing gown from the chair near the bed and strode out of the room. The door slam was hard enough to shake the house.

Clark stared after him for a long time then buried his face in his hands. “ _Fuck.”_

Some problems weren’t in his power to solve.

*

“Do you want to try one hundred and seventy?”

“Hm,” Clark smiled at him. It was a beautiful smile. Lopsided, playful almost. “Why not? While we’re here.”

Bruce imputed the new number into the computer and studied Clark through the transparent shielding. There was no perceivable change in his posture or expression. Only a single bead of sweat running down his forehead hinted that he was exerting any effort at all.

“How do you feel?”

“Alright.”

“One hundred and eighty?” 

“Yeah.”

Bruce typed it in and studied him again. He was clenching his jaw now, his breathing slow and deliberate.

“One hundred and ninety?”

“Yes.”

He typed it in. The magnets in the lab shifted. Clark didn’t.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine. Give me two hundred.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Give it to me.”

Bruce complied and watched the muscles in Clark’s arms shiver… but hold.

A new record. “Congratulations,” Bruce said. “You’re now holding the equivalent of two hundred quintillion tons. How does it feel?”

“Heavy,” Clark admitted.

“You’re growing more powerful as you get older. Have you noticed any change with your powers apart from the solar flare?”

“If I had you would be the first to know, Bruce… though… now that you mention it… I fought Luthor last week.”

“I am aware.”

“I don’t think kryptonite hurts as much as it used to.”

“Interesting…” Bruce looked at him. Clark didn’t look any different than usual. He’s shed his shirt and was wearing simple slacks. He had one arm behind his back, the other pushing back the magnet above his head. His muscles were starting to glean with a sheen of sweat. It was… quite the sight.

He caught Bruce’s look and smiled. “Two hundred and ten?”

“You sure?”

“I can take more.” Clark looked determined. No, more than determined. He looked like he was enjoying this, enjoying the challenge.

Well then. “Two hundred and ten,” Bruce typed it into the machine. “We’ll test you against some kryptonite later.”

Clark grimaced. “I’m going to… hhmmm… regret telling you that… aren’t I?”

“Two hundred and twenty?” Bruce asked.

“How much does Earth weigh?”

“In quintillions? Roughly six thousand. Is that your goal? It’s a bit beyond your abilities yet.”

“I am just using one hand,” Clark reminded him.

Bruce quietly acknowledged the truth of that.

“But…” Clark ceded. “I… ahhhh…. I think that’s it for now. Can you take it?”

Bruce quickly reduced the number to zero and watched as Clark stepped away from the magnets and stretched. He pulled on his shirt and began walking towards the door, out of the testing room so he could come around to where Bruce was at the control panel. Bruce cleared his throat. “Forgetting something?”

Clark looked confused for a moment, then embarrassed. He went to the table at the far end of the room and picked up the simple ring there. He slipped it back onto the third finger on his left hand.

“Sorry, B.”

Bruce absently rolled the matching ring on his own finger. “Get in here. I want to show you some of these stats.”

*

Bruce Wayne was the hardest person in the world to read. The differences of facial expression between ‘I’m happy’, ‘I’m horny’, and ‘I’m upset’ were so minor even Clark armed with supervision sometimes had a hard time divining between them.

Like right then as Bruce sat on the bed, laptop across his knees, and eyes pinned on the screen. He was reading an article about the possibility of DNA used as data storage. Of course he was.

“Are we… okay?”

Simply. “Yes.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

Bruce sighed. “I’m reading, Clark.”

“But you’re _sure_ we’re…?”

“Yes. I’m sure. Can I get back to my article now?”

For a moment Clark almost believed him. He almost bought it. Then… the barest flicker of downward movement around the corner of his mouth.

“You’re upset. I knew you’d be upset.”

“I’m not upset, Clark.”

“Look, I know you don’t like other supers appearing to work in your city. And that’s fine. I understand that. But she was falling off a building. What was I going to do?”

“You did the right thing.”

“Then why are you upset?”

“Damn it, Clark I’m not upset!”

The silence that followed that statement was damning.

Bruce hissed through his teeth and slapped the laptop closed. “You did the right thing. End of discussion.”

“But…” he shifted on the edge of the bed, not sure of he should cut his losses or plough on. “If all I did was the right—?”

“I didn’t say _all_ you did was the right thing.”

He blinked. “But… all I did was catch her.”

Bruce snorted.

“It’s true! All I did was catch her and…” she’d kissed him. The woman who’d fallen off her construction crane had puckered up and slapped one on him when he’d touched down. “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”

Bruce. “No.” Another minute flicker under his eyes.

“You are,” he said in disbelief. “You’re jealous.” Bruce Wayne, the former billionaire playboy was jealous. Clark couldn’t help but smile, possessing none of the control over his face Bruce had. “I’ve never seen you jealous before.”

Bruce growled and slumped down on the bed.

“Hey…” he crawled towards him. “You know it’s okay to feel—”

“One more word, Kent, and you’re sleeping on the sofa.”

Oh he was _jealous_. Clark swallowed his grin as he wriggled up beside the other man to push a kiss onto his lips. Warm, chaste, and loving. A simple share of selves that warmed him both inside and out.

When it was over he drew back with a content sigh. “Second best kiss I’ve had today.”

The pillow hit his face faster than he thought Bruce could move. “Out!”

He rolled out of bed with a guilty laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

“Oh, I’m sure you couldn’t Kent,” the man spat. “I’m sure you couldn’t.”

*

Bruce lay awake for an hour, then two, then four. Finally, as the horizon was just starting to glow with light from the approaching sun, he grabbed his blankets and made the long trek down the hall to the spare bedroom.

Clark wasn’t on the bed. Of course he wasn’t. That would make too much sense. Instead he was sprawled across the sofa in the corner in nothing but his pyjama bottoms. He looked like a model in a live drawing class, muscle stretched out in a languid display. His eyes were open, shining bright blue in the darkness, watching him.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He collapsed down onto that frustratingly perfect indestructible body, blankets and all.

Clark caught him and pulled him close.

Bruce pointedly ignored the brush of lips against his forehead and closed his eyes.

“Me neither,” Clark said softly.

“I’m still angry with you.”

“Yeah, I know, and I’m sorry. It was a shitty joke.”

Bruce let the apology soothe him. A minute later, he was asleep.

*

“It’s impossible.”

“No, it’s not. It’s just a little—”

“ _Tt_. Don’t contradict me, Kent! If I say it is impossible it is impossible. I have followed the instructions that fool teacher gave me to the letter but no matter what I do I cannot—”

“Did you carry the one?”

“What?”

Clark demonstrated on the paper in front of them.

Damian’s frown was identical to Bruce’s. “Do it again.”

Clark did. “You see…?”

“Give me that,” Damian snatched the pencil from him and began working through the equation himself.

He was a smart kid. A very smart kid. He didn’t get very good grades in all of his subjects – maths in particular – but Clark had a sneaking suspicion that was because he compared himself to Tim who was naturally suited to academics. Damian saw all of Tim’s effortless As and didn’t put in the effort he should. That ultra-competitive, ‘better to not try than to try and fail’ attitude was something Clark had noticed more and more as the boy became a teenager.

So he’d decided to sit with him while he was doing his homework. At first Damian had hated it. But, when Clark promised he wouldn’t tell anyone he was helping, Damian allowed it… and slowly Damian’s grades had been improving. His attitude too…

“This is a useless exercise.”

…a little.

“I will never use any of these equations as an adult,” he said.

“Maybe. Maybe not. That’s not important. Think of it like training. You’re always learning moves, styles, and techniques that I’ve never seen you use in a real fight.”

Sullenly. “But I might need them one day.”

“Ah huh. This is the same.”

“No. It’s different. Learning to fight, even if it’s not in a style I ultimately use, makes me stronger, faster.”

“And this is the same, but for your brain. You got to keep working out so when you need to do something you’re fit and ready to do it.”

Damian glared at him. It was a very Bruce like glare.

Then… “How do I do this one?”

Clark leant forward to take a look.

Half an hour later Damian’s homework was done. He rushed out of the room, probably to find Tim. Clark decided to enjoy the few minutes of peace they had before the inevitable fight broke out and flicked through Damian’s sketchbook. He really was very good… though perhaps he didn’t see the value in his skill with the pencil as much as he saw value in his skill with a sword. Maybe if Clark paid him to sketch a portrait or…

“How long have you been helping him?”

Clark looked up. Bruce was standing in the door.

Busted. “Don’t tell him. He’ll be upset if you knew he was getting help.”

“I won’t. How long, Clark?”

“Two months.”

“I thought so. He’s improved a lot.”

“It’s all him. I don’t do it for him. I just sit with him and help when he gets stuck.”

Bruce studied him for a long moment. Then, right when Clark was starting to get nervous, he stepped forward, hooked a finger in Clark’s shirt collar, and pulled him into an open hungry kiss. And oh… okay then… well… it was a surprise… but Clark wasn’t going to complain. He wrapped his arms around Bruce, pulled that firm perfect body against him, and deepened the kiss. Things were just starting to get really interesting, Bruce shifting his hips just so, when a noise from downstairs ended everything.

Tim. “Give it back you little demon brat!”

Damian. “Why should I, Drake?”

Tim. “Because it’s mine!”

Bruce pulled away and rested his forehead against Clark’s with a sigh. “It never ends does it?”

“I suppose not.”

“I’m really glad I’m not doing this alone, Clark. I’m really glad the person I’m doing this with is you.”

The sound of something breaking downstairs.

“We should probably go sort that out,” Clark whispered.

“Five minutes,” Bruce whispered and reconnected their lips. Another kiss, deeper and hungrier than the last.

*

It was a cold day. Bruce hated cold days. They brought back long lost aches and pains. Today it was his spine, left shoulder, and left leg, the injuries he’d got when he’d fallen from the exploding space ship all those years ago. He pulled some painkillers out of his breast pocket and, as subtly as he could, tipped them back.

He didn’t like relying on medication like this, but today was a special occasion. The last thing he wanted to do was distract from proceedings by having to stand when everyone else was sitting down, or vice versa.

Right now they were moving, the small crowd muttering quietly to themselves as they walked across the field.

Clark was at his side. He was wasn’t wearing glasses.

When they got to their destination Clark paused. Bruce reached out and took his hand. Clark didn’t squeeze it like he usually did, he just stood there and stared at the gravestone.

**Martha Josephine Kent**

It was made in the same style, cut from the same stone, as Jonathan’s gravestone beside it.

He kept holding Clark’s hand throughout the rest of the ceremony. He held onto him as a stream of people they barely knew came up to offer their condoles. Finally, when most people had left for the wake, he towed Clark off to a nearby tree and hugged him.

There, breath stolen away by the cold whipping wind, Clark clung to him and cried.

Bruce never said a word. He didn’t need to. He remembered what this was like. He knew sometimes words didn’t make a difference. Sometimes being there was all that mattered.

*

Bruce had been in the shower for a long time. Hours, in fact. No one else had noticed. They’d all gone to bed after patrol. But Clark had noticed. He watched him through the walls, listened to the water pumping through the pipes.

Finally, an hour before sunrise, Clark stood and made his way down into the cave. He went to the shower, knocked once on the door, and stepped inside, still wearing his pyjamas. They were soaked in an instant. It didn’t matter.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Did something happen on patrol?”

“No.”

Clark didn’t ask any more questions. He just waited. Finally…

“I think Tim should be Batman full time from now on.”

Clark studied him. “You sure?”

“Yes. I’m slowing them down. Its better I stay in the cave. I’m more useful as Oracle.”

“That’s your final decision?”

“It is.” Bruce quickly turned off the taps. The water stopped. “I will inform him tonight.” He left the shower.

Clark followed.

Bruce tossed a towel at him before picking up his own. He was halfway to dry when he stopped and just stood there… staring at nothing.

Clark approached him slowly and wrapped his arms around his middle. Even after so long in the shower Bruce’s skin was rough with scars. His breathing was a little faster than it should be, his heart too. Clark kissed him, a simple chaste kiss that was slow and steady. Bruce’s arms tightened around him.

They stood like that for a long time, holding each other, kissing, until the automatic lights in the changing room went dark.

Bruce sighed. “Time to go.”

“Seems like it.”

Bruce untangled himself from Clark’s arms and walked towards the door.

“Bruce?”

He paused.

“You’ll always be my Batman.”

Bruce’s lips flicked. It could have been a smile, but it was gone too fast to tell. “And you’ll always be Superman.”

The absence of ‘my’ in that sentence didn’t pass by Clark’s notice. “You don’t know that. I could retire one day.”

“But you won’t.” Bruce’s eyes were hard. “You’re going to do this forever… for me. Because I can’t.”

Clark found there was nothing he could say to that.

*

Clark was fucking him. He was doing a damn good job of it too. Not that that was a surprise. He’d had a lot of practise, after all. In the decades they’d been together Clark had fucked him enough to earn a lifetime achievement award in the art. Bruce wasn’t far behind. He’d fucked Clark up against every surface in this damn room at least a dozen times. But, in his old age, he found he enjoyed being fucked more and more.

Probably laziness. Or maybe he was old enough now not to care about society’s expectations of powerful men. Either way, it was nice just letting go and letting that beautiful indestructible body do what it did best.

“Ah,” he heard himself say as Clark shifted. It was a better angle. Close, but not too close, to the root of his cock. _“Ah.”_

Clark’s hands were on his hips, gripping him, his eyes were on Bruce’s, gazing down at him with an intensity that had never lessened, not in all the years they’d been doing this.

Bruce let his head roll back against the pillow. _“Ah.”_

“You’re so fucking beautiful.”

He wanted to tell him he was a thousand times more beautiful than Bruce had ever been. He wanted to tell him to do something more useful with that mouth than utter useless platitudes. He wanted to tell Clark how fucking amazing it was feeling him inside him, steady, hard, and pulling him apart in all the right ways. But when he opened his mouth all that came out was another _“Ah!”_

Somehow Clark seemed to decipher everything that went unsaid.

He hitched Bruce’s leg up higher – his right one, his left one had never recovered all its flexibility, a fact that Clark knew, wouldn’t forget it, not even here – and leant forward to press his lips against Bruce’s. The new angle was agonisingly perfect. Or was it perfectly agonising? It was hard to think with Clark’s tongue sliding against his own.

He wrapped his arms around Clark’s shoulders, feeling the muscles there. He was sweating. A lot. He didn’t sweat this much even when lifting the magnets in the lab. He could lift five thousand quintillion tons with each hand now… which was the highest levels of force Bruce could generate with his machine.

The knowledge that Clark worked up a bigger sweat fucking him than he did when carrying the weight of the world… well… it didn’t hurt his ego. In fact, it woke some animal part inside him, some instinctual part of him that thrilled at the idea of being able to make the man he loved sweat and pant and moan as he slid in and out of him with increasingly desperate thrusts.

Bruce rocked his hips forward, meeting those thrusts until, all at once, it was too much. He had to come. He was going to come. He was coming, panting, groaning, and painting Clark’s chest in white streaks of come.

“Beautiful,” Clark breathed, muscles shaking. “God you’re so…” and then he was coming too.

Bruce closed his eyes and let himself feel the spill of come inside him even as his body still rocked through the aftershocks of his own orgasm.

“God, I love being fucked by you,” Bruce heard himself rasp.

A low laugh. “I love you too,” Clark whispered and then they were kissing again, Clark still hard inside him, come smeared on their bodies.

Bruce considered breaking up their kiss to tell Clark he loved him properly. But the kiss was so good, the touch so perfect, he didn’t. It was okay. He figured Clark knew anyway.

*

It happened during the Chinese New Year festival in Gotham.

The family had gone into town to see the light show. As usual, Bruce and Clark had stayed behind. Bruce didn’t like to travel into Gotham anymore. Sitting in transport, even for only an hour or two, made him ache. So, instead, when everyone was gone Clark wrapped him up an absurdly large down jacket and flew him out to the edge of the property. There, on a patch of grass at the top of the cliffs, they sat and watched the show. It was impressive, even from a distance. Bright colours flashing in time to music.

“It looks like a fight,” Bruce said dryly.

Clark hugged Bruce to his chest and rested his chin on his shoulder, seeing what Bruce saw. “It does a little doesn’t it? The blue is the Watchtower lasers. The yellow Diana’s lasso—”

“The green is Hal fucking up.”

Clark laughed. “What’s the red?”

“That’s you fucking up.”

“Ah huh. And what’s you fucking up?”

“I’m Batman.”

“You don’t fuck up? Is that what you’re saying? Because I could point to a few scars that say otherwise.”

“I’m saying, when I fuck up, at least it’s not with a blaze of light.”

“Oh I recall several spectacular blazes of lights caused by your fuck ups.”

Bruce made a non-committal noise and leant back against Clark. It was ten minutes before he spoke again.

“Tim’s a good Batman isn’t he?”

“Yes. It suits him. Dick was never comfortable being Batman. Damian needed his own identity. Tim though… Tim made it his own.”

“He needs a Robin.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. You’ll make sure he finds someone good?”

Clark was surprised. He had never had anything to do with deciding who wore what costume in the bat clan. He opened his mouth to tell Bruce that. But, for some reason, that’s not what came out. “Yeah. Sure.”

Bruce sighed, happy. “Thank you, Clark.”

They watched the show for a few more minutes. And then, just before the finale, it happened. Bruce’s heart stopped.

*

Someone was shouting his name. The sound was muffled and far away. Bruce tried to focus on it but found it couldn’t. It slipped away, like the memory of a dream, until he was left alone looking at the strange lights flashing in his champagne flute, wondering if he’d ever heard anything at all.

“Wanna dance?”

“Not especially,” Bruce muttered and took another mouthful of champagne. “But I imagine you’re about to force the issue.”

Clark’s lips quirked toward a smile and he reached forward to seize Bruce’s hand and pull him up.

Bruce sighed, finished the champagne, and put the empty glass on a waiter’s tray as Clark towed him unapologetically towards the compact and decidedly empty dancefloor. The clatter of forks on plates and noise of conversations muted as the people closest to the dancefloor took note but no one rose to join them.

Naturally.

“I fail to see the point of this exercise.”

“Bragging rights,” Clark told him as he came to a stop in the middle of the floor and smiled – broad and beautiful – at him.

“You want to brag about being the better dancer?”

A low chuckle. “I’m showing you off.”

“How romantic.”

“Oh no,” Clark said and leant forward to kiss him gently on the lips. “Never that. I know you hate that.”

“Hm.”

The music changed. Johann Strauss II’s _Blue Danube Waltz_. A classic, if not somewhat safe, choice. Still the popularity and eternal nature of the tune meant they were liable to stumble into it accidentally a couple of times a year. Bruce grudgingly supposed he wouldn’t mind being reminded of this moment now and again.

“Ladies and gentlemen. The grooms share their first dance.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally conceived as a way to save some of my short Superbat drabbles that have, until now, only existed on Tumblr. It very quickly developed a life of it's own and out of the 22 'drabbles' here, only 6 were rescued and migrated from Tumblr. The rest are new.
> 
> It was an interesting experiment trying to put all the puzzle pieces together. I really hope you like it and I am sorry for the tonal whiplash.


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